


Fit for a king

by hatressoflore



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Maleficent (2014)
Genre: F/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 06:52:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1735226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hatressoflore/pseuds/hatressoflore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the public was robbed of the fairy king Pcap was meant to play, I wrote this litte fic to rectifiy it, although the fairies/lands etc aren't particularly Maleficentish since I haven't got a burning desire to watch the film, more inspired by what could have been. Slight but sweet whouffaldi.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fit for a king

Once, he walked among the moors, all enemies far from his mind, Clara wandering around her average life, as he was blissfully happy to do, every non – Wednesday, and, without even a faint human breath by him, it was certainly…certainly something to be without her.  
The tension, clearly tangible, was also something, the mutual abandonment of conversation whenever they hadn’t got along; the memories of times when they had, beaming and laughing burning one another’s heads, as they daren’t look into each other’s eyes, but glare.  
The moors were exactly what a brooding place of beauty should be, dark, and damp; but lovely, in their own way, the perfect place to let himself fluctuate between wallowing and shouting to the birds, ‘‘honestly, I can’t believe how sensitive she is; I am not a human; I can’t be. I won’t be. Why can’t she seen to grasp that, beyond ‘’look at his shiny capabilities!’’

But he didn’t quite brood.

Well; he didn’t for longer than an hour, which, in his terms didn’t really count at all, now, did it?

He realised, after sullen thought turning into guilt, that she must be approaching him rather like he shouldn’t have approached her; at once tentative and amazed, looking at the puzzle, and allowing it to show its soul.  
She didn’t have the suspicion he viewed her with, back then.  
He realised, as he was surprised to hear her shout at him in the more half-hearted of their recent arguments, that he was being petulant; and he tried, remembering just how bad he had been, not to act like his teenage self.

He remembered his sarcastically laden response when his parents denied fit to grant him with an old model of bariliumhydrosphinx for his acceptance into the academy’s highest tier, which involved a lot of sulking, and a brief flirtation with the idea of putting various Acrendiuan all-itch powders into their many layered robes, before he heard, as one often did, that a similar incident occurred, wherein a poor young lad very nearly pulled his little prank on the high advisor, which would have resulted in his head being sawed clean off.

The moors he was brooding not brooding and back again to another round of brooding on were, to a clearer head than his, truly beautiful, and they buzzed with energy, rising from beneath the ground, heightened around gorse and other bushes.  
He had turned from petulant to guilt laden, examining their fighting’s in closer details, then leading him to examine all the wrong doings of his life, before he was distracted by a little flower, that really, really shouldn’t be there - a little bud of Rackweed he quickly stamped on, hoping it would do something to it.

‘‘King?’’ A faint buzzing seemed to ask, surprising him immensely; leading him to flap his arms around to shoo away whatever it was shouldn’t have sounded like it had a voice.  
‘‘Thank you, your majesty - what has gotten into you? Has the giant spell granted you a worse temper to boot?’’ The niggling little talking fly was not best pleased with him for his attempts, but he shuddered at the thought of recognition by it, especially with the word king- what had he done, or what was he going to do, to earn that title?  
‘‘Well, if you think as highly of me as you ought to, you’d think twice before making comments like that. I also quite happen to think this personality is just as glowing as my other one, for your information.’’

The little pixie, which on closer inspection had a stubbly, vaguely green and warted face, murmured something that sounded like ‘wellhe’supinhisarseasalwaysatleast’, being quite malicious with his tone, which was hard for something that sounded like a shrill bell to achieve.  
This face had an odd, and very annoying ability to look like legions of others, he grimaced.  
Maybe he was a puzzle too.  
Maybe the whole great big bloody universe was nothing but a mad god’s Rubik’s cube; and even he couldn’t win, so the stickers were all being peeled off and sent to where they shouldn’t be.

‘‘So, uh, what exactly is it you’d want me to do?’’ He asked, feeling very odd having to squint down at the heated little sprite.  
‘’Lower taxes, increase my wages, save your Maleficent from her bad name and please, stop spreading the rumour we make milk go off, because that’s even more bad press; and a few of the younglings are actually trying to live up to it.’’  
The Doctor could quite easily guess their order of importance.  
‘‘Why are you wearing that rag-a’ tatter, it’s hardly fit for you. You’re more like a counterfeit than an acting monarch.’’ The Doctor turned to scowling; his coat was not one fit for mockery, and he’d be very inclined to make like a monarch of the century he’d flown to and chop off some disposable limb or appendage from whomever insulted it.  
‘‘These are the robes I wore when first meeting my Queen; would you wish to insult her as well as I?’’ 

Well, he’d hardly consider Clara his Queen; he was very hardly one for such romantic terms. He’d call her, in his own mind and hardly at all aloud, a dear friend, surprisingly often better the head in their partnership, absolutely brilliant; stubborn and beautiful and far, far too good to ever have put him on that pedestal he once so firmly perched. Never Queen. 

''Also, why is Maleficent’s name tainted all of a sudden?’’ He suspected that would be something important.  
‘‘The locals have got in their palfrey brains that she’s a dragon; and not just an angry wench, but a scaly one. They’d turn to pitchforks , if they could fight, but we always have the side of magic.’’  
He nodded sagely, honestly having no damn idea what to with the information, before splutter muttering ‘evolution’. He had no sympathy for races designing themselves as better than all others, which made his human companionships even more improbable.  
‘‘Well, you’re not going to do very much good walking to the middle of nowhere, can’t you realise your further than should be possible from our land, and entirely the wrong way for the damned human ones too? Can height really get to you that easily?’’  
‘‘I wish to greet my people in this form, to show them how we can bridge the worlds.’’ He said, saying nothing at all, feeling vaguely guilty he was pulling them along, but surprisingly unworried about what would happen if he bumped into the look alike in miniature. 

The sprite, Flickwit as he grudgingly revealed his name, led him to wherever another him was supposed to be, and, he had grown up for certain; he only felt vaguely queasy about the notion of crossing time lines.  
He wandered around the heart of their kingdom then, seeing, when he could duck his head in precisely the way needed, that there were houses made from coloured glass, that shone despite the light behind each bush, and each little trickle of rainwater, hardly even puddle material, was clear as an Aegean sea, and had titchy makeshift boats, from fragments of leaves, the damp autumnal ones being burnt into an oddly comforting smell.

Even if he was, in that life, a bizarrely titchy little creature, he had an impressive land, he had to say.  
He wished he could draw or paint it without his back giving way, or that he could write a letter to Clara about it, probaly minus the look alike bit, telling her of this remarkable little place he felt affection for even when not ruling; he was god at writing, better than awkward silences where they pretended friendship was all they’d ever had, and each story they told each other wasn’t listened too; as they both searched for apologetic guilt in one another’s eyes.  
Anything that saw him fluttered away, or up presumptuously to mutter anecdotes about their lives, and having a few of them perch on his shoulders like little ants, he couldn’t help but smile giddily, as he fabricated stories fit for a King to have lived.

Only one thing dragged him from the people a lookalike looked after, and the extraordinary place he would never have thought of before. 

It was a Travel morning.

She was a time machine, she should be punctual, after all, but knowing her penchant for trouble, he never could quite take a chance on any Wednesday.  
He’d probably arrive three hours late or early, but he’d arrive, he’d make sure.  
Even if the only things to come were running and fighting, and more of the pauses and strains, he would always, always arrive for her.


End file.
